


the sure extinction that we travel to (and shall be lost in always)

by stardustgirl



Series: the dead go on before us [2]
Category: Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: (he’s like. 18-19ish so. he’s LEGALLY there lol), (it’s really not), (kind of????), (no it’s not bc of That get your heads out of the gutter y’all its just bc Plot), (see previous note), Adult Ezra Bridger, Adult Tristan Wren, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, BET ITS FINALLY A CANON TAG NOW, Bisexual Ezra Bridger, Dark Ezra Bridger, Everyone is Dead, Ezra Bridger Has PTSD, Ezra Bridger Needs a Hug, Gay Panic, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I rlly like puns ok?, Imperial AU, Imperial Academies (Star Wars), Imperial Officers (Star Wars), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Inquisitor Ezra Bridger, Internalized Homophobia, Keldabe Kiss, M/M, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Purple Prose, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Slow Burn, Soft Boys, Sort Of, Sparring, Stupid Boys being Stupid, Tagging as I go, The Empire Wins (Star Wars), The Force, The Seventh Sister is a Creep, The ghost crew is talked about a lot in this but idk if they’ll show up, Tristan is Struggling(tm), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Well - Freeform, also Tristan gives me extreme secondhand embarrassment in this I want y’all to know that, and i like puns, and they were roommates!, but we love em anyway :), especially in the first chapter, gay angst, im just a simple woman, its complicated, its not a sad ending, it’s fun, oh also they’re both like 18-19ish bc uhhh Plot, or at least, or in prison, pls help him, pls help them, sabine only shows up in flashbacks but shes also talked abt a kriff ton, so thats why shes tagged, the Empire is homophobic but ezra says “kriff you” while tristan watches in awe, there’s legit sm of it and i’d apologize but I vibe w it so, this ends happily i promise, tristan is very oblivious and it’s kind of problematic, trying to make my way in the universe, two traumatized boys trying to comfort each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:14:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustgirl/pseuds/stardustgirl
Summary: Youngest children have expectations to live up to, shadows they live within, and Tristan is no different.  Only, the shadow his sister left behind thanks to her government-fighting phase isn’t one anyone would want to fill.  Not that anyone asked him before they told him to atone for something she did.  But he will, because that’s what a good son does.  That’s what anhonorableson does.Then he meets one of his sister’s former companions, and, as it turns out, there’s a side to the story the Empire isn’t telling him.
Relationships: Ezra Bridger & Seventh Sister, Ezra Bridger & Tristan Wren, Ezra Bridger/Tristan Wren, Gar Saxon & Tristan Wren
Series: the dead go on before us [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882459
Comments: 26
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yo OOP sorry I dipped from the SW fandom from a bit but my brain said “no thoughts head empty but for zuko” so ,, zuko ,,, but hopefully I’m back to writing SW! (still writing atla ofc but)
> 
> Also just a general heads up Seven is very much giving off vibes that should ensure she is kept far away from Ezra throughout this whole fic so uh ,, yeah

“Ah, Inquisitors, we were not aware that you would be arriving so soon—“

“Then clearly, you were misinformed.” Tristan risks a quick glance to the side, down the long, long line of cadets, spotting the pair of black-clad “special officers,” as he’s heard them called, making their way toward him. Both are humanoids, and the one in front is at least several inches taller than the one behind.

“Apologies, Inquisitors. You are here for the assessments, correct?” The Inquisitor closest to him nods.

“Yes,” she replies to the officer, voice tinny from the helmet’s modulator. “Dismiss all the...younglings, though. They’re serving no adequate purpose here.”

The officer turns, repeating the order. “Dismissed!” Tristan turns, making to leave, but a hand claps down on his shoulder. “You stay, Wren.”

Slowly, he turns back.

“Allow me to introduce Senior Cadet Wren, then. He’s already proven to be a far better investment of Governor Saxon’s interest than his sister was.”

He nods, the movement mechanical and rehearsed just as much as the act of pushing thoughts of his sister from his mind. The taller Inquisitor simply nods, but the younger, maskless one studies him a bit too closely. It doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s in their _job description_ to be off-putting.

The younger one staring at him is human, too, he realizes, and about his age. His hair is shorn close to his head and two thin, older-looking scars cut into his cheek. His eyes are what draw Tristan’s attention the most, though; they’re a dark shade of gold that reflects the light oddly and almost seems to put stars into them.

Tristan should _really_ stop paying so much attention to the Inquisitors before he gets himself killed.

“Wren can show your colleague to the boys’ dorms while we discuss the assessment results...if that is acceptable, Inquisitor?”

She nods again, jerking her head toward Tristan. “Go, pet,” she says, and in a moment of confusion Tristan thinks she’s referring to _him._ Then he sees the one behind her stiffen slightly and step toward him.

“Uh...the dorms are this way, sir,” he says, trying to regain his bearings. He gestures, leading the way down the hall and trying not to focus on what the Inquisitor had called her...”colleague.”

It’s an awkward walk, to say the least. He feels like the other youth is practically breathing down his neck, but his footsteps sound like they’re too far behind for him to do that. And there’s also the fact that Tristan has no clue why he _would_ do that, beyond adding to the whole I-want-to-kill-your-family-and-also-your-tooka aura he and the other Inquisitor have been generating since they arrived.

They reach the repulsorlift at the end of the hall and Tristan stops, hailing it with the button before stepping back. He shoots another wary glance at the Inquisitor, but the other boy’s gaze is trained on the ‘lift doors, and he’s as silent as Tristan.

The wait becomes very, very awkward very, very fast.

Tristan clears his throat. “So, uh, Inquisitors. Do you do a lot of...Inquisitioning? Sir?” Kriff, he’s bad at this. He’s about to get his head shot off by some trigger-happy outsider’s blaster because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

The Inquisitor shoots him an unreadable look, and Tristan mentally curses himself again. At least he’s not dead yet.

The ‘lift arrives in time to save him and he steps inside, pressing the button for the fifth level. As the doors close behind the Inquisitor, Tristan catches him studying the holocam fixed in the corner of the ‘lift.

They ride in silence, and continue in silence down the hall. Tristan stops at a door near the end of the hall, entering his keycode and stepping through when the door slides open. He starts toward the empty bunk, stepping onto the second rung of the ladder to peer onto the bed. It’s made, with the folds crisp enough to pass inspection with flying colors, and a datapad rests on top of the sheets. He grabs it, stepping back off and turning to see the Inquisitor hasn’t even entered the room yet.

“You can come in, sir,” he says, gesturing. “Top bunk’s yours.”

“I’m not...rooming with my master?”

His voice is...beautiful, if Tristan allows himself to think that. He banishes the thought almost immediately. It doesn’t do to pine after superiors, even superiors his age, even superiors rooming with him.

But his voice has a rougher, uncut undertone, too. It’s reminiscent of the mountains back home on Krownest— _the Empire is home to you now—_ and at the same time it reminds him of the way the vets back home talked when asked about their battles. The way his _own buir_ had sounded whenever she was asked about Maul.

Tristan realizes, after a moment, that he hasn’t even replied to the question. Kriff this. “Uh, no, no. She’s in one of the empty faculty rooms, we had someone go on leave a couple weeks ago, so we have an empty one right now. But there’s not a second room, so they assigned you to room with me since I’m kind of your guide here. That’s okay with you, sir, right?”

The Inquisitor blinks before nodding vigorously. “Ye– yeah, yeah, that’s fine, that’s great, thank you.” His voice loses the war veteran feel a little, and Tristan finds he likes it more like that.

_Stop it._

“The top bunk is yours, if you want it. If you’d prefer I get top, that’s okay too, I just know most people don’t like being on the bottom. Sir.” Kriff kriff kriff he’s making a _mess_ of this—

“I can take the top bunk,” the Inquisitor says, and Tristan allows himself to breathe. Realizing he still has the datapad, he thrusts it toward the Inquisitor, clearing his throat.

“Uh...here. They left it on the top bunk, so I think it’s yours. Probably has to do with your...assignment.”

The Inquisitor nods in thanks, taking it, and then moves past Tristan to the ladder. He actually has to climb to get up onto the bunk, and it’s then that Tristan realizes just how much taller he is than the Inquisitor.

“You can put your stuff in that, if you need, and then you can reset the keycode to what you need it to be, sir. And um...how long were you guys staying again?”

The Inquisitor shifts, turning to look down at Tristan. Probably the only time he’ll ever be taller, Tristan thinks absently. “A couple of weeks. My master has business here, and she said I’d help a bit, but she wants me to attend classes as well.” Tristan’s brows wrinkle in confusion.

“But...these are classes that any officer would have already taken...I mean we put an emphasis on tech, I _guess,_ but....”

“Well, I didn’t take ‘em,” he says, and is that a _smirk_ Tristan catches? If he didn’t know better, he’d say the Inquisitor must be one of the ancient _jetii,_ with their ability to mindread and figure out just how hopelessly Tristan’s falling.

“Oh,” he says at last.

“Oh,” the Inquisitor repeats.

Tristan forces himself to ignore the way blue flecks seem to flicker in and out of the Inquisitor’s eyes as he clears his throat. “I’m going to work on some stuff for class, sir, if there’s nothing else you have a question about?”

 _There’s a_ lot _of things I have questions about._

The thought is gone faster than the half second it takes Tristan to recognize and parse it, and he blinks, wondering where it came from. It doesn’t feel like one of his.

“No, there isn’t, thanks,” the Inquisitor says, and Tristan nods and crosses to one of the two desks across the room. He clicks on a datapad, pulling up the assignment from his last class and letting his mind drift. That’s why it’s so surprising when the Inquisitor clears his throat from his perch still on the top bunk.

“You don’t need to use ‘sir’ with me, either. Or Inquisitor. I’m...I’m still in training.”

“Oh,” is all Tristan can make himself say. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals that the blue flecks amidst the gold are gone.

He’s not sure how he feels about that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Intrusive Thoughts, Suicidal Ideation, Referenced Self-Harm, Seven Being A Creep, Referenced Torture, Referenced Death of Parental Figure, Dissociation

Saxon finds him on the practice range.

“Ah, Tristan! How is my best cadet today?”

“Fine, sir,” he says, lowering his blaster and standing at attention. Saxon studies him for a long, long moment, and Tristan feels unnerved. It’s nothing new, of course, not with Saxon, but still.

“Good, good, I’m glad.” Saxon smiles, that predatory one he has that makes Tristan’s hair stand on end and tells him to run home to his _aliit_ before it’s too late and they’re all burned to ash, but it was too late too long ago when his sister told the Empire no.

They never did take refusal well.

He stands awkwardly for a full minute, letting Saxon’s gaze rove over him and see that he’s up to standard today. Just like every day. He has to be, if he wants to undo everything Sabine’s done.

“Don’t let me keep you from your practice,” the governor says finally, making a shooing gesture. “At ease.” Tristan obeys, then brings his blaster back up and returns his focus to the holographic targets. He shoots three in quick succession, a sharp _ping_ each time letting him know he’s successful.

He turns slightly to adjust the difficulty settings, raising the speed at which the targets flicker into view. Saxon takes a step closer while he’s doing so, however, and he finds himself stilling.

A gloved hand grips onto the back of his neck, and the faint pressure of it makes Tristan’s eyes shudder closed as he lets out a slow breath through his nose.

“Do not get any ideas about that Inquisitor you are rooming with, hm? I would hate to have to rescind my approval of your actions here, and thus my patronage—” _my protection,_ he leaves unsaid, “—and I believe that you would be remorseful if I did so, too. Am I correct in that assumption?”

“Yes, sir,” he answers, voice hollow and devoid of all emotion. It’s locked away in the same place any remaining love for—and loyalty to—his sister is.

He can _hear_ the smile in Saxon’s voice as the man says, “Good boy. I knew you were a smart boy since the moment I met you, Tristan. Keep your wits about you,” _unlike your sister,_ he leaves unsaid once more, “and you’ll make it far with me. Continue to serve me as you already have, and you won’t have to worry about your family any longer. How does that sound?”

“It sounds good, sir,” he says, letting a breath out through his mouth. “Thank you for your generosity, sir.”

Saxon hums contentedly, releasing Tristan and backing away again. “Keep up the good work, Tristan,” he says in farewell. Tristan hears him leave, hears his footsteps recede until the door closes, but he still finds his breath lodged in his throat just above his courage.

* * *

_“Kanan, I’m not sure—”_

_“She’ll be okay, kiddo. She can hold her own.” His master’s voice grounds him and Ezra nods, shifting his grip on his ‘saber as the Inquisitors circle them like sharks._

_“Like we practiced?” he asks, soft enough for only Kanan to hear._

_“Yeah. Ready?”_

_Ezra nods again, and, back to back, they swing forward into their attacks like one being._

The Twelfth Brother sighs, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He doesn’t need this, not right now. He needs to be focusing on this assignment, so he can get it right and doesn’t look like a complete fool in front of the cadets.

 _It’s_ your _fault you never went to school, so you’ve gotta make up for it now. Kriffing_ useless.

He removes his hands, sighing again and returning his gaze to the text. It’s something about the way using liquid reactants in an ion drive can have mixed effects depending on the origin of said reactants, but he can’t concentrate on it long enough to figure much else out.

_“Kanan!”_

_His master grunts as he’s forced to his knees, and Ezra is hit with the_ cold _all at once, a cold so deep it seeps into his bones and makes him feel like he’s cracking and splitting at the seams—_

 _“These are the two who have given you so much trouble?” a cold, familiar voice asks. Ezra’s chest tightens tightens tightens because if_ he’s _here and Ahsoka isn’t, then she’s– she’s—_

He lets out a cry of frustration, throwing his stylus at the far wall and burying his head in his arms, face down on the desk. The physical release of throwing something helps with the anger, and he can’t lie to himself and say he doesn’t appreciate some aspects of the Dark, because he does. But that release is merely temporary, and does nothing to sate the memories preying upon him even now, years later. Only meditation could do that, but he hasn’t been able to focus that long since…since Before.

 _“Yes, he’s dead,” she practically sings, and Ezra_ breaks.

_“He’s dead, and….”_

_His ears are ringing too much for him to process anything she says after hearing that Kanan’s—_

_That_ Kanan is—

_Ezra doesn’t even feel it when she blocks him from the Force with an injection._

Shaking, Twelve pushes himself up and away from the desk, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it. He needs…he needs to _move._

He slips out of the room silently, winding down hall after hall until he finds the dojo. Quarterstaffs and other weapons he can’t name are lined up along the wall, but he ignores them. They still don’t trust him with a _real_ blade, not yet, not even after two karking _years_ of this charade, and half the time it makes him want to beg Seven for a knife to cut deeper than his training blades can burn, so he doesn’t only _feel_ the pain but can also make it so he doesn’t have to feel anything ever again.

Then again, Seven would be just as likely to laugh at him and hold him with the Force while she makes him remember just why he’s so terrified of her.

Sighing loudly, Twelve pulls his training ‘saber out and ignites it, doing some experimental twirls both to get a feel for it once more and to warm up before moving into katas.

“You’re _jetii?_ ”

He falters, swinging too low— _“That would’ve been your head, kiddo, you’ve gotta keep your guard up!”—_ before straightening and lowering the blade tip to the floor. He turns to see Wren, the Mando’s gaze unreadable.

Twelve shakes his head. “No.” Not anymore, at least.

Wren takes a step closer, and Twelve’s eyes snap to his hand as it strays toward his blaster. A WESTAR, like Sabine’s.

_Don’t think about them. Focus._

“ _Darjetii,_ then.” The awkwardness of earlier is gone from Wren’s voice, and it makes Twelve wary.

“No. I’m _not_ a Jedi, Dark or not.”

“I _asked_ if you were a Sith, _di’kut_.” Wren’s eyes narrow, and Twelve feels himself automatically shifting into a defensive position even as he barks a laugh.

“Hardly.”

“Then _what. Are. You?_ ”

“An Inquisitor, like that guy who introduced you said.” Wren scoffs at that, and the hand on his WESTAR tightens.

“No servant of the Empire carries around a lightsaber,” he spits, beginning to circle. Twelve follows suit.

“Well that’s pretty much in our job description.”

“I doubt that.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, shrugging.

“If you’re not loyal to the Empire….”

That’s what pushes Twelve over the edge. He ignites the blade and has it up and under Wren’s chin before the cadet can react. “The first thing you should learn about Inquisitors,” he says, voice barely more than a low growl, “is that we are loyal to _no one._ ”

Wren’s eyes show a glint of fear for a moment before it vanishes. “Then why are you _here?_ ”

The question takes Twelve off guard, enough to allow Wren to step back and level his blaster at him. Twelve just closes his eyes, exhaling, and lowers his ‘saber.

“I’m here because my master has an assignment,” he says, Seven’s face flickering into his mind against his will.

“What _master?_ That other Inquisitor?”

“Yeah. She...she’s training me.”

Tristan raises an eyebrow. “Those katas weren’t those of someone who’s hardly touched a sword before. You have experience.”

“Yeah. I’ve been training a while. So?”

Twelve just wants to disappear, to slip away into the ground and bury himself within so he doesn’t have the remember the first few months after Kanan was—

“That’s not the movement of someone who’s just been doing this ‘a while.’”

Twelve’s eyes snap open. “For four or five years now, okay? Happy?”

Wren shrugs, blaster still leveled at Twelve. He could Force choke him in a moment, but Kanan’s voice still lingers— _dead dead dead—_ in the back of his mind.

_“Ezra, no matter what they do to you, no matter what they do to me, don’t let them turn you into them.”_

He would laugh at the irony if he hadn’t failed so badly, if Kanan wasn’t karking _dead,_ if he hadn’t let Seven do whatever she wanted after the first few times she reduced him to a bloody, sobbing mess.

“I still don’t trust you.”

“That’s fine,” he barks. “You can join the club.” _I don’t even trust_ myself.

Wren’s expression falters at that, but regains control of himself quickly. “So you’ve been an Inquisitor for four years now?”

“I’m not here to spill my life story, _cadet._ Let me train in peace and get your karking blaster away from me.”

“No,” Wren says.

“‘ _No?_ ’”

“No, I’m _not_ going to put my blaster down until you explain why the Empire has a bunch of its so-called ‘Inquisitors’ armed with the same weapons Jedi use.”

“Ask the karking Emperor then,” he snarls, jerking his head. Wren’s blaster flies out of his hand and against the far wall, and Twelve shoves past him as he stalks out.

Doing katas doesn’t exactly seem to be helping his mental state right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tristan: hey ,, backstory  
> Ezra: ur not a level four friend  
> Ezra: canceled  
> Tristan: ??? i’m—


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Referenced Death of Parental Figure

Tristan is still not talking to the Inquisitor by the third day, though the latter of the two seems to have come around.

“Look, about the other day...I just don’t like talking about that stuff, okay? Just don’t bring it up and we’ll be okay.”

Tristan resolutely ignores him.

The Inquisitor gives up halfway through day four, and Tristan finds he _misses_ his attempts by that night. Maybe he really _was_ telling the truth, and Tristan’s being _shebs_ by not believing him.

So, he decides to take things into his own hands.

“Hey. You ever played _cu’bikad?_ ”

The Inquisitor turns so quickly, his expression so _hopeful,_ that it makes Tristan take a step back. “No,” he says. “What is it?”

Tristan smiles. “Fun.”

 _Cu’bikad_ isn’t _banned,_ per se, and it’s still easy enough to find a board projector to borrow after asking around a bit. It’s Mando culture, though, so the Empire doesn’t exactly _encourage_ it. Tristan brings the holoprojector back to his room, setting it up on the floor as the Inquisitor watches from his perch on the top bunk.

“You know, I can’t keep just calling you ‘the Inquisitor,’” he says absently, frowning when he flips the switch and the projector doesn’t turn on. The youth in question snorts.

“You call me that?”

“Only mentally, but, yeah.”

“Huh.” He doesn’t say anything else, and Tristan flips the switch back, turning the device to check another side.

“You got anything else I can call you? Like a name?” he prompts after the silence continues for a while.

“Not...nothing in a while.”

“An old name is fine.”

Tristan finally finds the issue and unplugs one of the wires, plugging it into another port by the time there’s a response. “...Ezra. You can call me Ezra.”

“Pretty name,” he says before he can think it through. The other part of his brain catches up then, and his movements slow.

 _Oh_ kriff.

Ezra, to his credit, simply laughs and appears to take it in stride. “Uh, thank you.” He runs his hand over his head in a way Tristan’s seen his sister do hundreds of times to push her hair back, but Ezra frowns in thought at the last minute, as if realizing his hair isn’t near long enough to.

Tristan doesn’t think he’d mind much if his hair _was_ longer, though.

“What can I call _you,_ though? Unless you’re fine being called ‘Wren’ and nothing else the rest of your life,” Ezra says, his voice lilting in a way that indicates the comment is a joke. Tristan cracks a slight smile as he rotates the cube back and flicks the switch once more.

“Tristan.”

The board flickers to life before them as Ezra hops off the top bunk, but then he stiffens. Tristan glances at him out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out what’s set him off.

“You good?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ezra waves in dismissal, but he’s clearly anything but fine. “I...actually I _have_ played this before,” he adds, laughing, but there’s a desperate, wild edge to it that Tristan can’t fathom the cause of.

“Okay, great. So you remember the rules?”

“Not really. It...it was a few years ago.”

“I can give you a refresher then.” Tristan kneels on the opposite side of the projector, watching as Ezra slowly follows suit. He seems suddenly older, and almost as on edge as that day in the training room, but this time it seems the fight’s fled out of him rather than rushed in. Tristan can’t help but wonder why.

And where it’s gone to.

He explains the rules, but Ezra’s distant the whole time. He nods at the appropriate places, of course, but his gaze is constantly darting between the daggers and Tristan and the door, and Tristan wonders if it’s possible for a tooka to live in human form.

“Your move first.”

Ezra contemplates the board, Tristan, the door, and then the board again. He shifts anxiously.

And then he moves.

Tristan nods, thinking for barely a moment before moving a piece. Ezra hesitates before moving again, and the game progresses similarly.

“I win,” Ezra says nearly an hour later, cracking a smile—it’s strained, it’s sad, it’s making Tristan's head spin with all the possible implications that ensue from the fact that Ezra can smile _like that—_ and Tristan glances down at the board to see that Ezra has, in fact, won.

And then he sees _how._

“Where’d you learn that strategy?” he asks, struggling to keep his voice even.

“Uh...the girl who taught me how to play. She...we worked on the same ship. Before.”

Tristan nods, slowly, mind whirling. Not because Ezra—a non-Mandalorian, and someone his own _age_ at that—has beaten him at _cu’bikad,_ of all things, but because of _how_ he’s beaten him.

Because the only person Tristan’s ever seen use that strategy is his own sister.

He pushes all thoughts of Sabine away—maybe others came up with a similar strategy, it wouldn’t be _that_ hard. Though, a part of him tells himself that it _would_ be, because Sabine had been a genius like no other. It would’ve been just like her to come up with a strategy no one else could possibly use.

Unless, of course, they were taught by Sabine _herself…._

No. No way. Ezra is a loyal, Emperor-serving officer-in-training, no matter what he tells Tristan about his true loyalties. And his sister is a temperamental, unpredictable insurgent. The two would have never crossed paths.

“Another round?” he makes himself ask at last. Ezra hesitates before shaking his head.

“No thanks, I...I’m gonna get in bed early. I’m...I just need to.” Tristan nods, trying and failing to ignore the sudden odd quality Ezra’s voice has taken on.

“Sure, yeah, yeah. Of course, I...yeah. I will too. I’ll probably go to sleep—not– not _with_ you, but...yeah. Just at the same time. Uh. Yeah.” He can feel his face burning, and he’s amazed at the fact that Ezra seems to be miraculously fine.

“Sounds good.”

With that, Tristan packs up the holoprojector to take it back while Ezra gets ready for bed. Tristan returns to find Ezra seemingly already asleep, so he follows his lead and hurries to prepare for bed.

He’s still trying to fall asleep when he hears noises from above. Quieting his breathing, he tries to focus on them.

“No….No, please...Master, not...not now….Please don’t….”

The bunk creaks, and Ezra gasps, but moments later he’s mumbling nearly incoherently again. Tristan can’t stand to hear him stuck in the nightmare anymore.

He gets up, getting out of bed and turning to see Ezra.

“Kanan– K’nan she's back, please...K’nan—“

“Hey. Wake up.”

He nudges Ezra’s shoulder gently along with the words, and the Inquisitor shoots bolt upright with a sharp gasp that’s enough to make Tristan stumble back a step. Ezra throws a hand out, and _something_ sends Tristan hurtling against the far wall hard enough to make him bite back a cry.

Ezra’s eyes widen, and he gasps, scrambling out of bed and tripping on the blankets so he falls out of the top bunk and to the floor with a crash. The pressure on Tristan’s chest releases, and he steps away from the wall, but still stays a few steps out of reach of Ezra.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so so sorry—“

“It’s okay,” Tristan says, cutting him off as Ezra scrambles to his feet and then trips on the blankets again. Tristan grabs his arm, steadying him, and Ezra’s gaze flicks to his in the near darkness caused by the light underneath their door. “You good?”

“I...yeah.”

Tristan nods, then glances down at the blankets. “Do you...I noticed you seemed to be having a nightmare, so I was wondering if– if you wanted to maybe sleep on the floor or something? Or if my bunk works better you can sleep there—I’ll sleep on the floor or in your bunk we don’t have to share I’m sorry that all sounded much better in my head—“

“I’m okay. Really.” There’s a beat, and then, “Would you mind if...if _I_ slept on the floor?”

“No. No, not at all, feel free. I just—isn’t a bed more comfortable?”

Ezra laughs softly, but the sound is pained. “I prefer the floor.”

“If you’re sure….”

“I’m sure.”

Tristan helps him lay the blankets out, and tosses him down the pillow before returning to his own bunk. He stares at the bottom of the top one for several long, silent minutes before Ezra’s voice breaks through the darkness.

“How did you know I was having a nightmare?”

“You...you kept saying, ‘No, please don’t,’ and then...you kept calling for someone named Kanan, too. Is he…?”

“He’s dead,” Ezra says, voice suddenly weary. “Good night, Tristan.”

“...good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the saga of tristan wren killing me via secondhand embarrassment continues !


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Dissociation, Implied Sexual Assault (blink and you miss it though), Implied Child Abuse (once again, blink and you miss it)

They begin a habit of late night talks the day after Tristan wakes up Ezra. Ezra returns to his bunk, and though he has the occasional nightmare, talking until late in the night about meaningless nothings seems to help greatly.

And then Ezra asks the question. The one Tristan’s been hearing since childhood, and now dreads answering despite the excitement it generated in his younger years.

“So...what’s your job after you leave training?”

It’s an odd way to word the question he’s pretty sure Ezra’s asking, but the wording of _most_ things outsiders say confuses Tristan anyway, so he never really thinks that much about it. He knows what his roommate means either way.

“It’s not really a job in the sense you’re probably thinking, but...I’ll be serving in the ISC. Under– under Governor Saxon.”

“You got drafted, too?”

There’s a creak, and then Ezra’s head appears upside down from the bunk above. Tristan shifts into his side, propping his head up with an elbow. “Uh...sort of? It’s a long story, but...kind of, I guess. As long as my grades and all are good. But it’s a very honorable position, and I’m very fortunate he still agreed to take me after...after how my sister turned out.” It’s a dangerous thing to say to an Inquisitor, a part of him knows, but somehow, the darkness of the room makes it easier for him to talk about these things.

“Oh.” Ezra’s head disappears briefly, and then he drops down to the floor below silently. He sits cross-legged on the floor below, rubbing his thumb in a circle over his knee for a moment before responding fully. “You don’t really make it _sound_ like an honorable position. Do you even want to do it?”

No.

No, no, no. Tristan does not want to join the ISC. He does not want to fight for the glory of the Empire. He does not want to serve under Governor Saxon.

But Sabine had only cared about her _own_ honor, her _own_ life, and no one else’s, so he’s stuck paying the price.

“Does that matter?” he replies, laughing softly. The sound is hollow in the darkness around him, and he almost hates the night for the way it makes him vulnerable like this. “I serve the Empire. And they want me to serve under Saxon, so I will. If they needed me somewhere else, then I would be assigned somewhere else, but I’m not, am I?”

Ezra sighs quietly. “I guess that’s true.” he falls silent, and Tristan thinks he’s going to move back to his bunk, but he never does. Finally, he says, voice softer than the distant hum of generators, “We’re...we’re all just pieces on someone else’s board, aren’t we?”

The bluntness of the observation takes Tristan aback. But after only a moment’s hesitation:

“Yeah. I...yeah. I suppose we are.”

“It’s kind of depressing.”

Tristan nods. “But even the weakest pieces...they can still take out the more powerful ones, you know. The winning ones.”

In reply, there’s a soft laugh, filled with razor sharp teeth he’s glad are no longer at his throat, and then Ezra says, “ _Good._ ”

* * *

Tristan comes back into their room—he’s not sure when he, exactly, he stopped thinking of it as _his_ room—after his last class for the day to find Ezra at his desk, head bent over a datapad. His right hand is clutching the back of his neck, and he scratches at it absently while he traces a slow line across the screen of the datapad with the other hand.

He would think it cute, perhaps, if that first hand didn’t elicit the ghost of Saxon’s grip on his own neck, the way he always initiated physical contact with Tristan as if trying to prove he owned him, as if dangling his life like a fish in front of a crippled tooka.

But there’s nothing _to_ prove. Tristan knows he’s powerless against the governor. He knows he’s powerless against the man practically holding his family hostage. He knows he’s powerless against the person responsible for the countless nights spent staring at the ceiling and wishing he were somewhere else.

He knows his place. He doesn’t need Saxon to remind him.

He clears his throat, breaking himself out of the cyclone of his thoughts. Ezra jolts at the noise, cursing sharply as his elbow knocks the datapad off the desk. Tristan bends to reach it at the same time he does and their fingers brush on top. Tristan freezes, gaze down. Slowly, he looks up.

Ezra’s a lot closer than he thought. From here, he can see the faintest hints of blue beyond the gold of his irises, and the scars on his cheek are brought into sharp relief with the glow of the device below them. He can see now that they’re burn scars, the skin faintly ridged within the narrow lines of the old injuries. They look old, too. _Who hurt you?_

Ezra clears his throat sharply. The moment dissolves around them like ash, and Tristan pulls his hand away from Ezra’s, grabbing the datapad and rising as Ezra straightens, too. He sets the ‘pad on the desk, clearing his throat and looking anywhere _but_ Ezra as he asks, “Whose class is it for?”

“Uh, it’s for, uh, it’s just...just data. It’s just...a _lot_ of data, is all.” He laughs, but the sound is tinged with anxiety. Tristan frowns.

“Do you want help with it? I can maybe try and—“

“No! No, no, it’s fine, thanks but I’m fine.” Ezra laughs awkwardly again, shifting to block the ‘pad from view.

“Do you want to take a break, then? I just finished for the day, and I was thinking I’d maybe go do some staff work before I start on classwork…?”

Ezra hesitates before nodding. “Sure. I...I need the practice, too.”

They head off together, and Ezra immediately drifts toward the far side of the room. Tristan moves to grab one of the quarterstaffs—his nice one, his _actual_ one, is at home, back on Krownest alongside his _actual_ armor and his _actual_ bucket. All of it makes his head spin.

He gets himself warmed up with a few practice swings, letting himself fall back into the rhythm he and Sabine would share once upon a time. Back in the old days, when he and Sabine could even be considered _friends,_ back before politics ever entered the equation.

He feels ready to spar after maybe twenty minutes and he turns, opening his mouth to address Ezra. The other youth, however, is seemingly lost in his mind.

Ezra’s eyes are closed, his movements as fluid and graceful as the near-constant snowfalls on Krownest. His mouth is moving, as if murmuring faint words that only he can hear. And as much as Tristan hates his _jetii’kad,_ he finds himself admitting that the faint hum it gives off is interesting, at least. The red tinge it casts over Ezra looks _wrong,_ however, in a way that he can’t explain. Ezra keeps going through his katas though, oblivious to Tristan’s gut instinct that something about this is wrong.

And then the katas take a sharp turn.

They go from the smooth, easy, flowing motions to sharper, more staccato ones. His sweeping blocks turn into jagged strikes, and his mouth has stopped moving in murmurs now. His eyes are still closed, but squeezed tightly this time, like _adiik_ trying to block out the monsters under the bed. Tristan knows Ezra’s lie a lot closer to home, though.

When Ezra finishes, he straightens, breathing heavily. His face is still twisted into a near-snarl, but when he opens his eyes and sights Tristan, it vanishes completely. All that’s left is the golden-eyed boy with the scars and the nightmares.

Tristan doesn’t feel like fighting him today.

Ezra, though, apparently does.

“You ready?”

He offers a slow nod in reply, getting into a defensive position with the quarterstaff—he hates how it’s weighted; his one at home is _much_ nicer and actually weighted _properly—_ and watches as Ezra does the same with his lightsaber. Ezra waits for a signal, and Tristan nods again.

They circle each other carefully, like a shriek-hawk upon sighting prey, before Ezra lunges forward with a ferocity he’s never seen before. Tristan blocks him just in time, and thankfully the ‘saber’s blade doesn’t cut through his staff. He pushes Ezra off and backs away, and they begin circling each other once more.

Ezra attacks first again, and this time Tristan manages to swap their positions so _Ezra’s_ the one with his back against the wall. Tristan continues pushing him back, sheer size allowing him to override whatever momentum Ezra had built up originally. In seconds, the Inquisitor is shoved back up against the wall, lightsaber forced away and pointed downwards. Tristan has his quarterstaff up against Ezra’s chest to block him from escaping that way, too, and they both take a moment to breathe.

“Check,” he says, breathing hard.

Ezra’s gaze is locked on the quarterstaff, even as perspiration continues to pour off his face. Tristan reaches to brush it away without thinking.

Ezra has his wrist in a vise-like grip in seconds, gaze suddenly dark. “Don’t touch me,” he growls, and Tristan becomes acutely aware of the humming blade in his grip.

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I—”

“You should just go,” he says, a sudden exhaustion in his voice as he lets go of Tristan’s wrist. Yet, Ezra makes no move to push away the staff, nor does he try to slip away otherwise. “I...you don’t want to get involved with someone like me,” he adds, voice so soft Tristan nearly misses it.

“‘Someone like you?’”

“Yeah. I’m too much.”

Tristan can’t help but laugh at that. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re not exactly _tall._ I think I’m okay.”

“You won’t be.” The _certainty_ in Ezra’s voice gives Tristan pause, and he raises an eyebrow. “You won’t be,” he repeats, shaking his head. His gaze falls. “I’m...I’m not the kind of person _good people_ are with.”

Tristan blinks in surprise at that, raising a hand before remembering his reaction only seconds ago and freezing. “Ezra—”

The door opens, and he turns, lowering his hand.

Saxon.

He steps away from Ezra immediately, raising his quarterstaff in a defensive position as Ezra’s brows shoot up in confusion. “Ready to go again?”

“What—”

“ _Ready to go again?_ ” he repeats, trying to get across his meaning. It takes Ezra a moment, but he catches on.

“Oh, yeah.”

He moves toward the middle of the room, and Tristan lets him resume his previous position on the other side. As he begins to get into a defensive stance, however, he feels a hand on the back of his neck.

“Tristan, I didn’t know you and one of the Inquisitors had taken up sparring together.” The comment is said mildly, but Tristan can feel the undertone to it as surely as he can feel the slight application of pressure as Saxon squeezes his neck.

“It– it’s a recent development, sir.”

“Hmm.” Saxon falls silent, and Tristan can see Ezra’s emotions flickering wildly as he tries to decide what to do.

“Is– is there something you needed, sir?”

“I only wished to remind you to do any of your upcoming assignments. You _would_ like to join the ISC, correct?”

He nods as much as he can—which isn’t much, considering the hold Saxon’s literally and figuratively got on him at the moment—and says, “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“I _also_ wished to issue you a reminder of the Academy’s rules regarding your...extracurricular activities,” Saxon continues in a voice too soft for the Inquisitor to hear. “Particularly with regard to your _relationships._ ”

“Sir, I’m not—”

“Do not lie to me, cadet.” Saxon’s hold remains a second longer before disappearing. “I won’t accept cowards among my most elite soldiers. Fix yourself before I see you again.” Logically, Tristan knows he’s walking away now, but he can still _feel_ Saxon standing just behind him, close enough he could put a blaster bolt through Tristan’s head as fast as he could snap his neck.

The door shuts, as if from several miles away, and Ezra is seemingly unfrozen. He rushes forward to Tristan, and he shuts his eyes, preparing for the comments. _You’re such a pushover, you know that? He could’ve killed you, and you were prepared to just_ let him? _You dare to call yourself Mandalorian when you let a karking_ politician _push you around?_

Ezra says none of that. Instead, his eyes simply grow sad, and he asks, voice softer than a fresh snowfall, “You too?”

Tristan is almost surprised enough the question doesn’t break him. _Almost._

Ezra helps him sink to the floor, and lets him sob as long as he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all i finally finished the playlist for this series so [here it is](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6bH8uGfJC2ARAThzRfxpSh?si=owa5XgWTTfi6TL0_PdkkKQ) kthxbye


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Dissociation, Seven Being A Creep, Referenced Parent Death, Panic Attack, Implied Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Victim Self-blaming

“Did your hair used to be long?”

The question is sudden, unexpected. Twelve rolls over onto his side, staring up at Tristan. His roommate is laying down almost as if he were already asleep, staring at the ceiling. Twelve knows he’s been through his share of hardships, too, but a part of him—the oily, slick, slithering part of him that Kanan had tried to help him smother and Seven had tried to help him loosen—feels almost _envious_ of his apparent calm. To just be _capable_ of seeming so calm, of seeming like your mind isn’t a whirlwind that threatens to tear you apart every moment—it seems miraculous.

The logical part of himself finally catches up with the part that wishes he could just forget everything about the Empire and kiss Tristan into next year and reminds him that he’s been asked a question. “Oh! My– my hair?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, uh...I mean, it wasn’t always this short. I dunno if you’d call it _long,_ but...it wasn’t always this short.” Twelve falls quiet, waiting for Tristan’s reply, if he has one.

“Really? How long was it?”

“It, ah...about to my shoulders, I think? Bit shorter maybe.”

“Wow. How long ago did you cut it?”

“Cut it short like this?” He sits up slightly, frowning as he feels Seven’s hand carding through his hair before pulling it tight, exposing his throat even as her lightsaber drifted towards his hair before—

“A couple of years ago. It was longer for...for a while before that.”

“Huh. Always wondered what it’d be like to have longer hair. My sister grew hers out a bit, but she could never have it too long. Said it got in the way.”

Twelve laughs. “Yeah, I had a friend who used to say the same thing….”

They fall back into silence, and then Twelve realizes what exactly Tristan just said. “Wait, you said you had a sister?”

“Mhm.”

“Older or younger?”

“She’s, ah, older. Just by a couple years.”

Twelve nods. Once he and Sabine had left behind his awkward attempts at flirting—and silently, mutually agreed never to bring it up again—she had become an older sister to him, of sorts. But growing up with one...that’s different.

“What’s it like, with an older sibling? Like how did your parents treat it?”

Tristan sighs. “My family was...important, once. We had status and stuff like that, you know? And like with our culture...my mom was a Countess. So my sister...she was supposed to be the next Countess, since she was older. Then...I dunno what happened. Stuff changed.”

Twelve can sense the lie, but he doesn’t call him out on it. It’s one lie in a web of horrible, crackling truths, and he doesn’t want to break the fragile trust they’ve built.

“But that’s the whole reason I was born, right?” Tristan continues, suddenly bitter. “No one has a second kid and thinks they’ll be perfect. I was the failsafe. A backup in case my sister decided she was gonna be _shabla_ and, well….Look where she ended up.” Tristan laughs, but it’s pained. “My sister’s rotting in an imperial jail and I’m the _di’kut_ stuck here in this _skanyc_ academy while my clan plays the Empire’s trained dog to keep my _shebs_ alive.”

Twelve is silent for a long while, trying to think of what to say. He finds that he can’t.

Finally, mouth dry, he murmurs the only words Seven’s left behind his teeth for times like these: “I’m sorry.”

Swallowing his pride behind them, too—along with the memories of clinging to Kanan’s chest as he _sobs_ over the news—he adds, “My folks...they got taken to an Imp prison, too. It’s...it’s hard.”

“Did they…?”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “They died helping other people get out.”

“Oh.” And then, “I’m sorry.”

“It was a few years ago, it—I’m okay.”

He’s not, but neither of them will say that.

Instead, Twelve adds, “I hope your sister is, too.”

Tristan makes a noise of agreement, and allows them to fall into silence once more, the darkness pressing like the weight of family and bars of durasteel upon them.

Naturally, it’s a while before he can find sleep.

* * *

“ _Apprentice!_ ”

The call yanks him from his thoughts and Twelve turns, grabbing his commlink and clicking it on even as he writes a short note for Tristan to explain his absence. “Yes, Master?”

“ _Report to the Administration Offices at once. It’s nearly time for the final decision. And then, if you behave yourself, maybe I’ll let you linger with your_ cadet _another day, hmm?_ ”

Anger flushes through his veins as he stands, the chair rolling back across the floor. “He’s—“

The comm beeps as Seven hangs up, and Twelve lets out a cry of frustration as he nearly hurls it at the far wall. He slams a fist onto the desk instead, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to let the _fury-fear-frustration_ bleed out of him and into the Force.

Seven stopped up the way for that a long time ago, though, so instead the emotions remain within him, curdling into a substance that makes whatever shred of light that remains inside his soul wither.

_I’m sorry I’m not good enough, Kanan._

Sighing one last time, he rubs the back of his neck anxiously and slips out of his room. He lets his mind wander down whatever pitfall-laden path it wants; it’ll need all the material to distract itself with as it can get by the time Seven’s through. As usual, of course, letting himself have such free reign leads where it always does.

_“Ez– Ezra?!”_

_Kanan’s voice is rough, grating, but it has hardly any effect on the ringing in his ears. Ezra groans, forcing himself to sit up as the cell door closes behind him. “Yeah?”_

_“You good– good, kiddo? Are you all right?”_

_He isn’t. Kanan isn’t, either. But telling each other pretty lies keeps them looking at the truth in a roundabout way, and keeps them from turning to stone at the straight sight of it. “Y– yeah. Wasn’t too bad.”_

This time, _he leaves unsaid._

_Kanan’s quiet, but after a minute he gets to his feet, grunting with the effort. He staggers over to Ezra, kneeling beside him. Ezra tries to ignore the way the Jedi nearly falls over in the process._

_“We’re gonna be all right, kiddo. We’ll– we’ll survive this.”_

_Promising that they’ll get out unscathed is too much for even a Jedi. Ezra doesn’t fault him for it, though._

_“I know,” he lies instead, and hugs Kanan as tightly as they can manage. “I know.”_

He reaches the office and heads inside, sensing for Seven behind the door to one of the conference rooms before keying himself in. She’s standing at the back, faceplates on her helmet retracted as she watches a Core-accented officer stutter out something about test scores. Upon sighting Twelve, she smiles, dipping her head in greeting. He returns the gesture, letting the door slide shut behind him as he stands on the precipice of the viper’s pit. The officer, apparently oblivious to the tension nearly _vibrating_ throughout the room— _how_ he's oblivious to that Twelve doesn’t know—continues his speech, but Twelve absorbs nothing. Seven crooks a finger, and her smirk widens as he obeys and approaches her. He doesn’t have the energy for a punishment today.

She shifts forward, moving closer to the conference table. He takes up his usual spot slightly behind her, but she grabs his wrist and tugs him forward. He halts, close enough to the table he can see his reflection—still as foreign and familiar as feeling his parents’ names on that prison list—on the surface.

She still holds onto his wrist as the officer continues, only now her grip is hidden by the edge of the table. Twelve wants to grimace, but he forces his expression into a blank slate, trying not to acknowledge any sort of feeling about this whole mess that he’s become.

“ _Do_ start from the beginning for the sake of my trainee, would you? He can be so...inattentive.” The officer nods, hastily flicking through his datapad to begin again. Twelve inhales shallowly, the breath slow slow slow so she won’t notice the panic rising like a flood within him.

 _Why are you scared, darling? It isn’t as if you’ve never shown me your fear_ before….

He swallows, hard. He can’t push her out, just like he can’t push out the memories that creep in along with her sickeningly sweet thoughts of her giving him a mockery of comfort after Kanan’s death, of her stroking his hair back amidst the susurrus of her loaded threats as he sobbed and broke apart like a glass doll tossed upon the rocks.

Her thumb starts moving on his wrist, circling it with a gentleness that’s as foreign to her as kindness. He swallows back a plea of _please don’t,_ trying to ignore the way his heart wants to crawl up his throat and spill itself to the ground so she can’t turn kindness into its own brand of poison, too.

She keeps up the soft motion, though, and Twelve has to swallow back another plea. _Please. Don’t._

He can _feel_ Seven’s smirk across their facsimile of a bond, and he wants to scream.

* * *

Tristan’s working out a problem for one of his engineering courses—he knows Ezra likely won’t be back till late; he saw the note—when the door slides open and shut without another sound. He barely gets the chance to look up from his work and turn around when Ezra’s practically hovering over his shoulder, muttering in a low tone, “Can I—can _we,_ I guess—do the– the Kenobi kiss thing?”

Tristan blinks in surprise, turning fully. “The _what?_ ”

“The– the Mando thing, y’know, with the forehead—“

Oh. He’s referring to _mirshmure’cya._ “Oh. Yeah, I mean, if you want to, but you know it’s just between family and part—“

Before he can finish, Ezra’s forehead is pressing against his, and he can hardly register the sensation of it because Ezra’s breathing is rapid and shallow, the breathing of someone who’s just completed a perimeter check with a _sen’tra_ rather than someone who’s just come from a meeting.

He stays as still as he can until Ezra’s breathing evens out, and even then he doesn’t pull away until he asks, “You good, _cyar’ika?_ ” He uses the term hesitantly, almost as an afterthought, and half of him hopes Ezra won’t notice.

Ezra nods, slowly. “I– I’m good,” he says finally, closing his eyes as he pulls away. When he opens them, the gold is shot through with blue, but it’s faint, sickly.

_This place is killing us both._

“I’m good,” Ezra repeats. “Promise.”

Tristan offers a soft smile in return. “Okay,” he says.

He pulls away enough he can turn and go back to his work, and hears more than sees Ezra moving to the wall and sliding down it until he’s sitting on the floor, knees tucked tight to his chest.

“Did the meeting go okay?” Tristan asks after several long, awkward minutes of silence. Ezra shrugs.

“I just...I just needed to be in control of something again. Of– of _myself_ again. I can’t...you know how when you’re fighting, you sometimes just lose yourself in it?”

Tristan sets his stylus down slowly, turning to meet Ezra’s gaze. The Inquisitor, however, has his locked on the opposite wall, though Tristan can tell he’s seeing right through it.

“Yeah.”

“Every time...every time she– she makes me even be in the same _room_ as her, I just...I feel more lost. I’m already too far gone, but...but when _she’s_ there, I just...it’s _worse,_ somehow, you know?”

Tristan nods, confused. “Sure,” he lies.

“I can’t...I can’t keep being like this. It’s...” Ezra trails off and then, without warning, lets out a yell and buries his head in his knees. Tristan gets up, approaching and kneeling close enough he can help if needed, but far enough not to harm. Ezra mumbles something into his knees.

“What was that?”

Ezra raises his head, gaze expressionless. If it weren’t for the fear practically swimming in his eyes, Tristan doesn’t know if he’d have the slightest clue to his feelings.

“I need to get _out_ of here,” Ezra says.

And Tristan nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s a mental breakdownnnn
> 
> *off-key kazoo playing*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal Ideation (not acted upon), Implied Homophobia, Seven Being A Creep, Victim Self-blaming, Intrusive Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Referenced Death of a Parental Figure, Dissociation

The plan isn’t hard. At least, it’s not _supposed_ to be hard.

But this _is_ Mandalore, after all. And Mandalore doesn’t like to let her children go without a fight.

Saxon calls Tristan up to his office the day they’re planning to get out, and he goes, because he can’t do anything else without the risk of exposing their plan. Ezra says he’ll wait.

Tristan knows he will.

“Come in, my boy, come in,” the governor says as the door slides open. Saxon makes a beckoning gesture, and if Tristan didn’t already know of the sharpened teeth and claws the man before him possessed, he may have been tricked into mistaking his growing smile for kindness.

However, he knows it’s anything but.

Tristan obeys, an unknowable threat hanging above and weighing down his shoulders as he stops, still a few feet from Saxon’s desk. “What did you need me for, sir?”

“I have been fair to you, Tristan.” A lie. Not that that’s anything new, coming from the same mouth that spills more spiders and snakes than truths. “And you’ve served me well. So...I will give you a choice.”

He can’t help but tense slightly. A choice? A choice between...what?

“You can tell me what, exactly, Project Harvester is, _or_ I can inform the dean of the nature of your... _relationship_ with the younger Inquisitor.”

Tristan’s blood runs cold.

“Our...our _what,_ sir?” he repeats, hoping he misheard.

Saxon laughs darkly. “Do not paint me as _dense,_ my boy. We both know that you and the Inquisitor are experiencing _something._ Did you really think that I would be so oblivious as to miss it when it was right before my eyes in the training room?”

The way Saxon had gripped his neck, had threatened Tristan without him even knowing _what_ the sword that hung above his head was, had controlled him— _you_ let yourself _be controlled—_ as easily as if he were a puppet. Tristan’s blood is no longer at its usual boil; now he just feels cold, cold, cold. There’s no way out of this one.

He doesn’t know what Harvester is. He has no clue what Harvester is.

But if the dean finds out...Tristan’s chances of staying—of _redemption—_ are practically non-existent.

“So, Tristan. Will I be scheduling a meeting with the dean, or will you be telling me what I need to know?”

* * *

Mercy, Twelve has learned, is knives.

It’s knives coated with ice in the deadening heat of a Lothal summer, it’s those same knives plunging into an obsidian heart and holding it aloft for all to see the cracks in it.

Mercy, he has learned, is never kind or quiet.

He wonders, often, if what he and Seven have can be called anything. _She_ calls it _mercy,_ says it’s the thing that’s saved him from death at the hands of the same blade that struck Kanan down.

He finds that he would agree with her, if he didn’t long for that death so much.

In the days since meeting Tristan, he also finds himself wondering if what _they_ have can be called anything.

Seven calls it a pastime. She says it’s what he’s doing to keep himself busy without her, that it’s a way to _cope_ with loneliness. She tells him these things over and over, reminds him that loving a snake is as impossible as catching one.

She’s the one who seems the most serpentine out of the pair of them, in his opinion.

He tells himself that Tristan isn’t _loving,_ that he _can’t_ be feeling anything remotely like that because Tristan doesn’t feel _wrongoilysickdeadly_ like _she_ does. He tells himself that Tristan isn’t loving because you can’t love broken shards if you’ve never seen the terrible amalgamation of them together.

He tells himself this over and over, because how can you love someone who smells so much of _rot_ and _decay?_ How can you love someone who has been the undoing of practically everyone he’s _ever_ held close?

Twelve rolls off his bunk, rolling his neck as he moves to the pair of lockers in the corner. He opens his, fishing for the blaster he nicked ages ago and has been hiding since. Withdrawing it, he double checks the charges. Good, there’s enough to last him hopefully long enough they can escape.

He closes the locker, sitting back on his heels with a sigh. He lets his gaze drift for a moment, enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s straining to focus any longer. Naturally, of course, his eyes hone in on Tristan’s locker, just above his.

Something he hasn’t felt in a long time tells him to check it.

Swallowing hard, he reaches out with the Force, feeling for the passcode before stopping himself. No. That’s something– that’s something _they_ would do. Not him. Not Kanan. Not– not Jedi.

_“I think you’re a pretty far fall from a Jedi now, my pet,” she says, smiling as his breath heaves in his chest like a busted hyperdrive threatening to implode. That’s how he feels, too—like something kept in too small a cage for itself._

But he isn’t _them,_ either, is he? Seven calls him Twelve (when she isn’t calling him one of her _nicknames_ ), lets him call _himself_ Twelve, as some sort of attempt at an exchange for his complacency. They both know that the only reason he doesn’t fight anymore isn’t because of that; it’s because he _can’t._

And they both know he’s just as much an Inquisitor as he is a Jedi, which is to say, not at all.

He gets to his feet, stumbling away from memories and lockers, and eyes the blaster in his hand. The metal is cold, reassuring him no one’s found it yet, and also distracting him from the spirals he tends to fall into easier and easier now. He takes in a deep breath, shifting his grip on the weapon to view it from another angle.

_You could kill yourself with this._

He ignores the voice. The Force wouldn’t take him back into her fold now, he knows. And death like this would be too...easy. No. He’s paying for what he’s done, and if he ends it, it won’t be fast.

Twelve sighs, the sound nearly thunderous in the emptiness, and tucks the blaster into the holster on his belt. He’d made it ages ago, just in case, even though Seven mocked him for weeks.

 _“Look at the little Padawan, trying to_ prepare _himself for something that will never happen.”_

They never did learn how the Grand Inquisitor died. And he has a feeling that by the time Seven realizes he’s put his long-empty holster to use, she won’t be the one laughing anymore.

Steeling himself once more, Twelve turns to the door, exiting without a look back. He’ll get out soon enough, and Seven will be dead, and Tristan will be safe. Everything will be as perfect as it _can_ be in this broken, warped version of the world they’ve created.

He hurries to the rendezvous point they decided on two nights ago, shooting sharp glares at anyone who dares to look at him too closely. The scars and the eyes and the clothes probably help his intimidation factor a lot, but he doesn’t focus on that. He doesn’t need intimidation here. He just needs Tristan.

Tristan finally emerges from a hallway at the other end of the cafeteria— _that’s_ where he is, he realizes; he’s been so stuck in his own world he didn’t notice—appearing flustered. Twelve’s meeting him in the middle of the room in seconds, but Tristan shakes his head.

“Too crowded,” he mumbles.

Twelve nods, and lets him take the lead.

Tristan brings them to a supply closet and shuts them in, sighing before speaking. “The governor knows.”

“Knows what?”

“Knows about– about us.”

“So?” Twelve shrugs, though he knows the movement’s likely impossible to see in the darkness. “It’s not a problem unless he knows about our escape, right?”

“No, no. It’s a _big_ problem. He’s Mandalorian, yeah, even if he’s a karking _bad_ one, but he’s also Imperial. And you know how the Empire is with people like us…” he trails off.

“I still have no clue what yo—oh. _Oh._ ”

“Yeah.” Tristan laughs weakly. “‘ _Oh._ ’”

“I mean, kriff ‘em, but it’s not like— _we’re_ not like—together, or anything, right? I mean, unless you _want_ to be, but I’m...I’m not a good person—“

“But the other day—you, and me, and– and that keldabe kiss—“

“But that’s just the _name_ of it, it’s not like it’s an _actual_ kiss, it’s just between friends and like Sabine said you’re technically supposed to _whack_ the other person but I was exhausted and dealing with _her_ is just a lot and—“

“It’s...definitely not a friends thing.” There’s another weak laugh in the darkness, and Twelve’s face starts to warm.

“Oh. Uh...sorry.”

“It’s...it’s fine. You’re not Mandalorian, so I wouldn’t expect you to...to know….”

“I still should’ve been clearer about it. Like I _trust_ her, I trust Sabine Wren with my kriffing _life,_ but it’s not as if this is the first time she’s tried something like—“

“Wait. You– you said Sabine? Sabine Wren?”

Twelve blinks. “...Yeah…? D’you know her?” There’s a gasp. “Oh, wait, you’re a Wren too, right? Are you guys like cousins or someth—“

“No, _di’kut;_ she’s my karking _vod!_ ”

“...that’s ‘sibling,’ right?”

An exasperated sigh. “ _Yes._ ”

And then everything slots into place.

“ _Oh._ ”

“Oh,” Tristan echoes.

And Twelve can’t help but laugh.

* * *

They leave the closet once Ezra has gotten himself under control, though the sheer absurdity of the odds of the situation they’ve found themselves in still seems to be making him crack up. Tristan ignores it, for the most part. He can question Ezra about Sabine once they’re far and gone from both this place and from Saxon’s sphere of influence.

He’s glad he planted the bombs on the landing pad earlier today; that brief moment of forethought will make this plan a lot easier to pull off. He heads out to the landing pad to wait while Ezra goes to “take care of something.” Tristan has no clue what, but he has a feeling that it’ll make the explosion seem tame by comparison.

Then again, Clan Wren is hard to beat when it comes to pyrotechnics. Mother had made sure that that was _one_ tradition, at least, that would be passed down through both her children.

It’s been nearly half an hour—long enough some of the cadets working on projects out here are giving him looks out of the corner of his eye—when there’s a sudden crash. Tristan pushes himself off of the wall he’s been leaning on, turning to see two flashes of red whirling and slashing towards each other within the building.

Ah. So _that’s_ what Ezra had to take care of.

There’s another loud crash, and the sound of transparisteel shattering, and someone hurtles through the wall of glass to land in a crouch beside him. He turns his WESTAR only to find Ezra at the end of it, lightsaber in one hand and a blaster he’s never seen in the other. Tristan lowers his own weapon.

“Why hasn’t anything blown up yet?!”

“I was _waiting_ for your signal!”

“That _was_ the kriffing signal!” Ezra yells back, gesturing to the missing glass. Alarms are starting to sound now, and Tristan catches sight of cadets approaching to join the ranks of the officers already gathered just inside the building.

And at their forefront, the other Inquisitor.

“Come back, dear,” she calls, and Tristan can practically _see_ Ezra’s entire body turn rigid. “Be a good boy.”

“Wren, if you value your standing at this academy, you will come back here right this second, and you will bring that traitor with you.” The governor’s voice is cold, even as it carries across the landing pad, and Tristan knows Saxon’s narrowing his eyes the way he always does when something doesn’t go his way. “ _Now,_ boy.”

“I’m getting impatient,” the Inquisitor calls. “And do not think for a _second_ that you have the ability to win today, to win _here,_ pet. You’ve lost enough already. Just come back before you lose more.”

Tristan casts a glance at Ezra at that, trying to parse out what the female Inquisitor means, but he’s greeted with an expression of such determination it nearly scares him.

The only thing that terrifies him more right now is the fact that Saxon hasn’t come down here yet.

“Tristan, do the karking _explosions!_ ” Ezra hisses under his breath.

“I’m _waiting!_ ”

“On _what?!_ For them to come down here and make _examples_ of us?!”

Tristan bites his lip. Ezra’s got a good point. But still….

He can hear Saxon’s sigh, even from a hundred meters. “It seems your _colleague_ is not as well-trained as you claim, Inquisitor,” he says, loud enough to be heard even out on the landing pad. “I’ll go fetch them myself.”

“ _I_ can retrieve my _own_ pet,” she snaps, stepping through the transparisteel. “But you may want to get your _students_ in line before they try something else, Governor.”

“Tristan….”

He presses a button on his gauntlet.

The ships on the landing pad—all save one, that is—explode in varying arrays of gold and gray, the combined momentum enough to make the duracrete beneath them feel unsteady. It’s enough to take Seven’s guard down, and Ezra turns to grab Tristan’s wrist.

And like a fool, he spills his feelings.

“I’m scared to leave.”

“Yeah? Well, so am I.” Ezra smiles, the sight rare, and it nearly makes him smile, too. “But they’ve already broken us down as much as they can. So let’s go.”

If there weren’t a million klaxons blaring behind them, Tristan thinks he would kiss Ezra right here, right now, in full view of his commanding officers and the other cadets just inside.

Instead, he takes Ezra’s hand, and they run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, the boys get out safely and yes, there will be more fics to follow :)


End file.
